


surprise, and other elements of the periodic table

by SociopathicArchangel



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, TV Omens, this is just an excuse to write aziraphale slowly falling in love please
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-05-07 10:52:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19207885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SociopathicArchangel/pseuds/SociopathicArchangel
Summary: And Aziraphale doesn’t know it now, not now; but he will know this later, years down the line, watching humanity build and tear down and fight each other. He will watch these things and read all about them and something will click in his head and he’ll realize, oh, this capacity to question, this capacity to think, it’s a very, very human thing.And Crawley is already starting to get there.





	surprise, and other elements of the periodic table

Aziraphale has never seen a demon. 

This, of course, is because there weren’t any demons before the Fall. Demonity was not an idea, not a created specie, perhaps not even something supposed to happen. It had been a surprise, which is of course a rather explosive element, and this had been demonstrated in the fact that half of Heaven had gone up in flames and grace in the skirmish that had happened between Lucifer’s side and Michael’s, before all the angels who had rebelled got kicked out of the pearly gates and into the suddenly-existing-but-very-definitely-not-there-before fiery pit of sulfur. 

He does know that all demons were once angels, and so he should not be surprised when, the first time he  _ does _ see a demon, he doesn’t look any different from Aziraphale, save from the fact that his robes are black, either from the soot of Hell (what a strange word, Hell), or simply because it’s really just black. 

Crawley, he calls himself. 

Aziraphale has also never interacted with a demon, for the same reasons as listed before. All he knows, because it was all he’d heard, is that they are rebellious troublemakers who are against the will of the Almighty.  _ Smite On Sight  _ is Heaven’s stance regarding them, advertised by Gabriel, who had filled in Lucifer’s place after the archangel’s fall. He’s rather enthusiastic about his job, although maybe a little too enthusiastic. Aziraphale does not know whether it’s genuine or if he’s covering up some sort of grief from losing a brother and friend. 

He’d expected Crawley to be exactly what the angels who  _ had  _ fought the rebels had said (as at the time, Aziraphale had been shown around the bare bones of what would become Eden, since it was going to be his future job, guarding it), but Crawley does not taunt, does not spit malice, does not approach with him with anything other than an honest curiousity that strikes Aziraphale as neither angelic nor demonic. 

Angels are not supposed to question. Demons are not supposed to be genuinely intrigued.

“Didn’t you have a flaming sword?”

Aziraphale tries not to squirm at the question, guilty. 

“You did, it was flaming like anything.”

Beautiful, yellow serpent eyes, filled with curiousity. 

“If you must know,” Aziraphale says, after a while of Crawley staring at him like he’s trying to figure the angel out. “I gave it away.”

_ “You what?” _

“I gave it away!” Aziraphale says, and he sees something else in Crawley’s eyes, but he can’t quite figure it out. Fascination, perhaps. Amusement, at Aziraphale’s blunder. 

Crawley just smiles, looks over at where the humans are starting the first day of the rest of their lives, outside of the shelter and the perfection of Eden, and into a world where they can shape everything with their choices. 

“Funny if we both got it wrong, eh,” Crawley says later, after a few more words exchanged. “If I did the good thing and you did the bad.”

And Aziraphale doesn’t know it now, not now; but he will know this later, years down the line, watching humanity build and tear down and fight each other. He will watch these things and read all about them and something will click in his head and he’ll realize,  _ oh,  _ this capacity to question, this capacity to think, it’s a very, very human thing. 

And Crawley is already starting to get there. 

But right now, Aziraphale just straightens, barely keeping his wings from fluffing up, giving an indignant,  _ “No!” _

 

* * *

“Aziraphale!”

The demon has remembered his name. It has been years since they’ve seen each other since the wall, and Crawley looks a lot different than he had then. He’s wearing human clothes, for a start, so he’s blending in with the locals. Probably got stationed on Earth for a job.

He’s still got that curious look in his eyes too, which is a nice thing to see. Aziraphale had been warned about ‘demonic operatives’ on Earth, and he’d been quite wary about running into one. Just because the first demon he’d ever met had been a pleasant conversation partner didn’t mean all of them would be. Perhaps it was just the grace of the Almighty looking after him, or luck.

Crawley asks, which is what Crawley seems to do. He’d asked before and he’s asking now, asks about what’s happening, if everyone else is getting drowned, if the  _ kids  _ are getting drowned. 

And that question makes Aziraphale stop. Children are growing up and learning how the world works and what’s right and what’s wrong, and to take away that chance  _ does  _ seem unfair, especially when they’re being punished for the sins of the generation before them. 

But again, angels are not supposed to question. Heaven prides itself in being obedient, as in obedience, the kingdom flourishes. They are servants of the Almighty, and they are not supposed to question the Great and Ineffable Plan. 

Demons, though, demons are not supposed to be compassionate either. Demons are not supposed to champion change and forgiveness and second chances. 

But this is not for Aziraphale to be curious of. Crawley is still a demon, the enemy. So he says something about the Great and Ineffable Plan, as he’s supposed to, and Crawley says,  _ “How kind.”  _ full of resentment and contempt and barely-concealed horror.

 

* * *

This appears to be the pattern. Every now and then, they meet and Crawley points out something and asks about it, asks if it’s part of the Great and Ineffable Plan, when it seems to him, it could be done about in another way entirely that doesn’t have to involve bloodshed. Aziraphale says the same thing, that it is not their place to question, and Crawley laughs, sometimes in amusement and sometimes in irritation, mockingly says  _ “The Great Plan.”  _ and asks if  _ Aziraphale  _ thinks this is all the right way to go about things. 

“The right way to go about things is the way of the Almighty,” Aziraphale says, once. “The Almighty knows what’s best and what is to come. I do not have any opinion about anything involving the plan.”

“The way of - oh, blast it.” Crawley throws his hands up. “Don’t pretend you didn’t cry while you watched kids trying to run to the highest point of their village and hold each other while the water rose.”

Aziraphale’s corporation’s stomach squirms. He miracles the anxiety away, but that just seems to make it worse because it takes away the response of his body so his focus fully shifts on the discomfort that his grace is feeling. 

“Is that what’s best, Aziraphale?” Crawley asks. 

Aziraphale does not answer. It is not his place. 

But he does remember watching the children crying, screaming, asking for help and for their parents, just like he remembers singing them to sleep so they won’t feel the water filling up their lungs and taking their homes. 

He thinks Crawley does too, and even when the demon has looked away, he can still see the grief and anger in his eyes. The incensed look screaming,  _ That wasn’t fair. _

For the first time ever, Aziraphale thinks  _ he _ might be curious.

 

* * *

He changes his name to Crowley, and Aziraphale thinks it does suit him a lot better, although he’ll take a while to get used to it, undoing habits and all. He doesn’t change much, though, not really. He questions and questions and questions, and Aziraphale deflects it all with explanations of plans and ineffability, and Crowley gets annoyed at it, sure, but he never stops talking to Aziraphale. It’s not Aziraphale he’s irritated at, either, and they both know that. He’s annoyed at Heaven and its huffy rules that don’t quite make sense to him, and in turn, Aziraphale isn’t annoyed with him either. 

It’s hard to be when half the time, his questions are often asked with and because of concern. 

Aziraphale doesn’t know if Crowley loves humanity. He’s not sure if demons are capable of love, he’s heard they aren’t - as demons and Hell are the absence of the presence of the Almighty and God is love - but he does show a lot of concern and empathy for them every now and then. 

Even when sometimes, they orchestrate their destruction themselves. Humans are messy, demon-level messy (“Maybe more,” Crowley’d said once), but somehow this never stops Crowley from vouching for them in arguments he has with Aziraphale, not that it’s really much of an argument when Aziraphale vouches for them too. He is a creature of love, after all. All angels are.

It’s not hard to appreciate them, though. They are capable of great love but they are also capable of great evil; they are creators but they are also destroyers; they are complex, fascinating creatures, a mix of the strictness of Heaven and the constant backstabbing that goes around Hell. 

They can choose wherever they want to side with.

Aziraphale and Crowley do not have choices. They have their head offices to report to, they have their orders to carry out. They’re just supposed to do it.

Which is why it’s incredibly surprising when Crowley decides, bless it, hey, angel, perhaps we can just lie about this and say we did our jobs. 

And surprise is an incredibly explosive element. Moreso than any other in the periodic table.

 

* * *

Maybe that’s where it’s starts. 

Crowley, who always asks, who is fascinated by the world, who rescues Aziraphale even when he doesn’t need to because he’s a demon. Crowley, who doesn’t even remotely act like a demon, because demons are not supposed to feel for other creatures, they’re not supposed to appreciate things other than for their destructive value, they’re not supposed to help people they can barely call an acquaintance because they’re on opposite sides of the battlefield. 

Crowley suggests this one thing, them hoodwinking their head offices and Aziraphale says,  _ no,  _ because that’s preposterous, working with a demon, but not for any fear of his own safety. 

No, he’s quite surprised (boom!) to find that he actually trusts Crowley. Trusts he wouldn’t stab him in the back or manipulate him, and that’s a dangerous thing for an angel to do, but he also finds that he’s not too worried about that. 

He’s worried about  _ Crowley.  _

Heaven is made of love and mercy and forgiveness (or so the posters say). Hell is not. It is the absence of all that. If anyone ever found out about this, Aziraphale can simply say that he saw a good soul in Crowley, and an angel’s job is to nurture good souls. Demons were once angels, and they still are of angel stock, they’re just on a different side now, and look a little different from Heaven’s agents, who often look a lot like earth nobility, depending on which place they are assigned to drop by. 

But if Hell finds out, they wouldn’t appreciate that. They’d likely think Crowley was trying to earn brownie points and sneak back into Heaven through redemption and love and forgiveness, and tear him apart atom by occult atom. 

Aziraphale is worried about a demon. 

He thinks nothing of it. He  _ is  _ an angel, a being of compassion. If he has compassion for the enemy, then one can’t really fault him for it when it’s what he’s supposed to do, be forgiving of sinners and all. Samuel (Clemens - or Mark Twain) had said it best when he’d said,  _ who, in eighteen centuries, has had the common humanity to pray for the one sinner who needed it most? _

And he does have a point. Demons are just creatures who had questioned the Plan and got kicked out of Heaven for it. Aziraphale, as an angel, should have the common humanity to pray and forgive them.

(Common  _ humanity,  _ haha.)

He carries this worry around for years. He looks out for Crowley, even, and does it at a distance given that he knows the demon would not appreciate it. He and Crowley start doing each other’s jobs whenever they have to fill in for the other, and their little agreement grows and Aziraphale makes sure to cover his tracks for Crowley’s sake. 

When Crowley asks for holy water, he feels that same discomfort in his stomach that had bubbled up when he’d thought about the children back in the flood, and he refuses. He says  _ no,  _ he’s not going to let Crowley just destroy himself, he’s not going to enable him; the demon is hurtling fast into anxiety and self-destruction and Aziraphale does not know if he will accept help, but he knows he cannot push this further. So he says no.

They fight, because Aziraphale says the wrong words ( _ “I have lots of other people to fraternize with, angel,” Crowley says, and it sounds like a cover-up for a hurt, because Crowley had thought they’d had something, had a friendship, and all it was to Aziraphale was something to do at the side to achieve an end)  _ and Crowley tells him he doesn’t need him.

It hurts to say, but Aziraphale says, “And the feeling is mutual, obviously.” and tosses the scrap of paper Crowley’s handed him into the water. It blazes from his disdain and desire to never see it again. He can smell that smoke as he walks away. 

And the worry never stops, in fact it worsens, because he doesn’t hear from Crowley in a long, long while. Humans need their space when they’ve been through something awful, so Aziraphale takes the same approach and leaves Crowley alone for a while, but that space morphs from a few days to radio silence for decades.

Aziraphale wonders and paces, but he can’t exactly check up on a demon, of all people. That would alert Heaven, or worse, Hell. He doesn’t even know where Crowley is hiding, if he  _ is  _ hiding and Aziraphale hasn’t just found himself so horribly alone for a misstep he’d done in St. James’ Park all those years ago.

But he does hear from Crowley again, and it’s in the middle of a church, consecrated, dangerous ground for a demon, in the middle of the Blitz. 

“Mr. Anthony J Crowley,” the nazi says, “Your fame precedes you.”

And Aziraphale nearly sighs in relief, because Crowley is okay, in fact, he’s been on the field doing work if the nazis know him enough to be able to identify him on sight.

Which is also concerning because he could have been killed - discorporated - but Crowley’s more than capable of defending himself against a couple of, in his words, half-wit nazis. 

“Anthony?” Aziraphale asks instead. 

“You don’t like it?”

It’s like nothing even happened between them, no fights, no discussion about holy water, nothing that had put a wedge in their friendship years prior that led to zero contact until this very night. 

And then, because Crowley is Crowley; kind, smart, compassionate Crowley, who might just trust Aziraphale as much as Aziraphale trusts him, he redirects a German plane and bombs the church. Aziraphale puts on his hat and everything collapses around them, but nothing touches him or the demon. 

Crowley looks around, at the rubble, no longer jumping around like a lizard in a saucepan. 

No threats. Aziraphale is okay. They both are, thanks to him, really, because Aziraphale can’t hurt humans. He’s an angel. 

“The books!” Aziraphale remembers suddenly, with a sinking feeling in his stomach that’s not as deep as it should be, as he’s still riding the high from reuniting with Crowley  _ and  _ working with him to escape a couple of nazis. “I forgot about all the books - ”

Crowley leans down and pries the bag full of said books from a dead nazi’s hand and offers it to him.

“Little demonic miracle of my own,” he says, and Aziraphale’s brain short-circuits. 

Kind, compassionate, thoughtful Crowley. 

Crowley who asks and raises his voice against things he’d thought were unfair, who has been with Aziraphale since Eden, who has come back right after Aziraphale implied their ‘friendship’ hadn’t ever been a friendship at all, who has saved him again from discorporation, even at the risk of his own safety, and had been thoughtful enough to muster up the last of his strength, hindered by being on holy ground, to save Aziraphale’s books.

Crowley, who is walking away with a pleased little saunter and a satisfied smile, and says, “Lift home?”

Aziraphale stares at him, and there is something in his chest he cannot quite describe. He doesn’t need a heartbeat. He doesn’t need to breathe. He simply needs to inhabit a body that is shaped human, and it’s fine. 

But his heart skips a beat, his breath falters, and he watches Crowley go, taking his heart with him.

Surprise.

_ Boom!  _ So explosive, this element.

 

* * *

Aziraphale has read many things about romance, in all his time here on earth. He isn’t foolish enough to consider himself an expert, as he’s heard no one really is, but also because it is one thing to read about something and a completely different thing to put it in action, or to experience it. 

He does recognize the oddity in his behavioral patterns more and more often. 

He loves to smile; humans respond better to it, and in fact it brightens the day of some of them to see someone friendly and welcoming. The urge to do this triplefolds whenever he’s with Crowley, which isn’t all the time but is now often enough that it’s an actual problem, because the demon might notice. 

He’s always been someone who’s used to lifting others up - humility is a must and all that - and it also does wonders to the self-esteem whenever someone recognizes hard work, but he finds that there’s always the urge to point out,  _ See, you’re a good person! See, you’re so kind! See, you’re so clever! You’re amazing!  _ every time Crowley does something that makes Aziraphale blink and go, oh, that is impressive, isn’t it. He’s a smart demon. He’s efficient. He thinks outside the box a lot and gets things done, and he’s always ready to lend a helping hand, which Aziraphale appreciates, and the urge to verbalize that appreciation is getting out of hand. Only he can’t, for both Crowley’s and his own sake. 

Worst of it all is the urge to just care for him. Crowley is more than capable of taking care of himself, in fact, he’s also capable of looking out for himself  _ and  _ Aziraphale, but that doesn’t stop the traitorous urge to just check up on Crowley and make sure he’s alright and hope  for small miracles to let his day go smoothly, from bubbling up to the surface with such an intensity that it makes Aziraphale want to explode.

At least they start to form a system of places they can meet for impromptu meetings, and he  _ can  _ actually see Crowley and ask him how everything has been. The demon is a little thrown off by the questions at first (“Recounting the deeds of the day, angel, really?” “No, I was just asking how  _ you  _ are.”) but eventually just lets it slide as Aziraphale being Aziraphale. 

It also amplifies the worry even more. It’s irrational, he knows, but when Crowley’s a little late, or when he calls with a bit of a hurried tone to his voice, that urge is there again, fiercer than it had been before (maybe it’s always been there, and he’s just never noticed it, who knows), and he wants to lift his wings to shield Crowley from whatever rain is pouring, wants to welcome him into his bookshop because this is Aziraphale’s home and he’d be damned if anyone would hurt Crowley here, wants to go to him and see with his own two eyes what the problem is so he can help.

But he can’t do that. 

Aziraphale is an angel, and Crowley is a demon.

If Heaven would not approve, Hell would destroy Crowley, and that’s infinitely a lot more danger than whatever Crowley often faces from time to time.

So he does whatever Crowley suggests would be the best course of action, which oftentimes is a small favor with the demon taking everything from there, circumventing circumstances and scraping by with his wits and stubbornness. Aziraphale just waits, a steady shelter from the storm, for when the demon decides it is time to take cover from the rain. 

Except, one night, he hears about something a little more troubling than a small skirmish or trouble with human operatives going after the demon. It’s the sort of trouble he’d thought had been left behind a hundred and five years ago and would never have to surface again, only it has. 

People gossip. People talk, especially when they’re helping others who are in a bit of a pinch, finance-wise, and Aziraphale hears as he works in Soho as an independent bookshop owner now. 

That night, he makes tea he doesn’t drink and sits down on his couch with his face in his hands. 

Where had he gone wrong? What could he do - he doesn’t want to hand Crowley his means of complete destruction, but at the same time, he can’t have him risk his life for it either. There would be no do-overs if Crowley ever accidentally even got splashed with a bit of holy water. He would completely cease to exist. 

To be a demon is to be the absence of everything completely holy. Holy water cleanses and purifies impurities out of souls. If a soul is made up of nothing but impurity, then there would be nothing left after. 

Aziraphale doesn’t want to sow the seed of Crowley’s destruction, but at the same time - well. 

He sighs. He sits on the couch unmoving for several hours. 

Then, when daylight breaks, he grabs his hat, a coat, and a tartan thermos. He’s got a delivery to make tonight. Might as well get everything in order early.

 

* * *

Crowley doesn’t look like he knows what to say. Aziraphale smiles and looks away. It’s strained, of course, but it’s no matter. He’ll smile because he doesn’t know what else to do otherwise. 

Beg Crowley to change his mind and return the holy water? Not happening, given the demon was setting up a caper already. Tell him again how dangerous it is? They’d just get into another fight and Aziraphale is tired; he doesn’t want to fight, not when he doesn’t know what is going through Crowley’s head right now. Take it back? Foolish.

So instead he just sits with him in the silence, hoping to God he hadn’t done the wrong thing, again. 

It would really be funny, wouldn’t it, if he did the wrong thing. The sort of funny that begins with a laugh and ends with tears, not of mirth, but of something that’s been building up inside one’s ribs and has finally found a crack to burst through. 

“Should I say thank you?” Crowley asks, finally. 

Aziraphale tries to put on his best face again. “Better not.”

Crowley nods, like he understands. “Can I drop you off anywhere?”

“No, thank you,” Aziraphale says, and sees that familiar expression on Crowley’s face; the desire to make something even between them, to help, maybe, and he nearly laughs, because  _ oh, Crowley.  _ “Oh, don’t look so disappointed,” he says, “Perhaps one day, we could - go for a picnic. Or dine at the Ritz.”

Crowley’s posture is lax, grateful, touched, but there is a determination behind his dark glasses that Aziraphale only knows is there from millenia of friendship. 

Friendship. They  _ are  _ friends. They’ve been friends for a very, very long time. 

“I’ll give you a lift,” Crowley says, “Anywhere you want to go.”

Aziraphale thinks he’s getting rather good at predicting these explosions inside his stomach, sometimes fluttering around in a line inside his lungs and making his breath stutter. It’s there again, now, as he sees the choice that the demon is actually offering him here and now. 

A hand, extended, an invitation to get out of the garden. His proverbial apple.  _ Come with me,  _ Crowley is saying.  _ That picnic, that dinner,  _ **_anywhere_ ** _ you want to go, I can take you there, come with me.  _

It is the moment at the edge of the precipice, the choice for Aziraphale to take his hand and fly, or to let go and stay on the ground. 

But he knows what he has to do. It is for the same reason why he’d given Crowley the holy water. The same reason why he’d asked him to call off the robbery. 

He gives Crowley a small smile, tries to make it as kind as he could although he thinks he’s only achieved a look of heartbreak, and lets go.

“You go too fast for me, Crowley.”

He gets out of the car.

* * *

 

 

Somewhere in Crowley’s very being, there is a tiny explosion akin to a universe starting.

 

* * *

The apocalypse comes too soon.

They’ve both always known it was coming, of course. Aziraphale had been briefed about it from the very first day he’d been in Eden, along with being told who his enemies were, how to spot them, and what to do if he saw one ( _ Smite On Sight!)  _ but six thousand years is a long time to get used to a place as beautiful and fascinating as Earth, and he’d rather like to be on here for a few millenia longer. 

But there’s nothing they can do about it, because the apocalypse is supposed happen. And Aziraphale knows what he should do when it comes to things that should happen. 

But - Crowley. 

If Heaven wins (Crowley says that there’s not going to be any restaurants where they know his name anymore, no sweet shops where they sell his favorite sweets and pastries, no musicians that Hell doesn’t have already), Crowley is not going to be there anymore.

Because Crowley is a demon. 

But, surely,  _ surely _ forgiveness and mercy and love would abound, right? It’s Heaven. That’s what Heaven is supposed to be  _ about.  _ Surely, they’d see how Crowley was different from most demons and give him a second chance. Aziraphale could trust in that, right?

He’d like to ensure this, he really would, but this is not something he can control. He’s only an agent of Heaven, he doesn’t run Heaven. 

Crowley asks him to dine with him at the Ritz. He freezes. 

Of course he says yes.

 

* * *

The plan for the apocalypse is a shaky one, but it’s the best one they have: help raise the Antichrist together and cancel each other out, make sure that he’s normal instead of fully evil like he’s destined to be.

Of course, this plan goes sideways eleven years later, as they figure out that Warlock (bless his mischievous, bright soul) isn’t the Antichrist. The Antichrist is somewhere else entirely, and neither of them know where, but they have to do something, they have to find him, because otherwise, the planet is going up in flames. 

So they do what they can. They try to find his records (nada), they try to put the Witchfinder Army on it (which they later find out has been run by only one man for years until recently, and also he gets nothing), they try to think of something else because they’re running out of time and they end up fighting instead (so still nothing). 

“We’re on opposite sides!” Aziraphale says, after Crowley offers him that proverbial apple again, that invitation to come away with him.  _ Anywhere you want to go.  _ The Earth can end but they can go somewhere else, they can run away together. 

But Aziraphale can’t do that. He’s not supposed to do that. 

He wants to. God, does he want to, and that want blooms in his chest almost as fiercely as his terror, but he knows what has to be done.

That same want comes up again when Crowley comes back for him in his car, apologizing. He extends the same offer again, to run away with him to Alpha Centauri. Anywhere Aziraphale wants to go; to that picnic, to the Ritz, to the edge of the universe at the end of time - Crowley will take him there. 

But they would be hunted down. They would not be safe. That would not be enough. So many innocent lives would be lost in the war between Heaven and Hell, and they wouldn’t simply let the disappearance of the Angel of the Eastern Gate and the Serpent of Eden go unnoticed. They would hunt them down to the end of all things and eliminate the one who was on the losing side, if not both of them.

If Heaven wins, or even if Hell wins, and they run away, Crowley would still not be safe. 

So Aziraphale says no. 

Crowley leaves. 

And then he comes back, of course, because that’s what Crowley does, only this time, Aziraphale isn’t there anymore.

 

* * *

The end of the world ends not with a war but with a child declaring his identity.

He is no son of Satan, he is the son of Arthur Young and Deidre Young, friend of Pepper, Brian and Wensleydale, dog-parent of Dog and an all around regular human boy. 

Maybe he’s got a bit of an extra kick on the celestial side, but no matter, he’s Human Incarnate, as Aziraphale had told him, and the boy had given him and Crowley one last smile and a wave before running to his bike and biking out of there with the rest of his friends, his dad hurriedly getting in the car and chasing after them. 

At the end of the end of the world, or the end of the world that wasn’t, the Apocadidn’t, the Apocawasn’t, the Apocalypse That Tried, whichever - Aziraphale miracles up a bottle of wine and he and Crowley sit on the bench to just rest and share a drink.

It has been a tiring day. It has been a tiring few days, rather, and in addition to the stress of the impending end of the world, his faith in Heaven being shattered and a good part of his identity now subjected to personal question, and the dilemma of possibly having to kill a child - he’d had to fight with Crowley over and over.

It had all been too much. The stress is getting to him now that they’re both crashing from the adrenaline high (or the metaphysical equivalent of it), and only Crowley sitting beside him and the alcohol are keeping his turmoil at bay. 

They talk in hushed tones, too tired to muster anything more than that, but it’s alright. It’s just the both of them now. There’s no one outside right now (save for the International Express delivery man, who pops by to take the Horsemen’s items, but that’s about it), and it’s just both of them sitting together in the night, not even Heaven or Hell bothering them. 

It’s a good time to breathe, both literally and metaphorically. They’d both just barely gotten out alive, after all, along with the rest of the human race which is none the wiser on what had actually happened in the past few days. 

But it’s not over yet. Aziraphale thinks about the scrap of paper burning a hole in the pocket of his coat. Agnes Nutter’s final prophecy, concerning one last thing after Armageddon. 

He doesn’t know what it means. Rather, he can take a stab at it, but he know he’s not going to want to hear what it actually means, not because he’ll hate it, but because he knows he’ll be afraid of it. 

Heaven has stood down from the war, but Heaven is still in operation. Aziraphale is still an angel. 

_ Choose your faces wisely,  _ Agnes had said. 

Aziraphale knows what he’d chosen when the world was ending, but that was exactly it.  _ When the world was ending. _ When it was all or nothing. There was nothing he could lose then because if he didn’t do anything, he’d lose it either way. His shop would be gone (was gone,  _ is  _ gone), all his human friends would die,  _ Crowley  _ would likely die too. 

Now, everything is on the plate again and Aziraphale  _ does  _ have something to lose, and he’s sitting two feet away from him drinking out of the wine bottle. 

If he chooses to defect, or if he chooses to side with Crowley, he’ll endanger them both. 

But - 

But. 

Crowley summons a bus that’s supposed to drive to Oxford but will drive all the way to London anyway. 

“I suppose I should ask him to drop me off the bookshop,” Aziraphale says. He’ll need some time to think about it. He’s thankful Crowley’s done him another favor, though, even when he can’t say it out loud.

Crowley turns to him with a little frown on his face, concern in his expression. “It burned down,” he says, and then, like it’s an afterthought or an attempt to see if he’d been piss drunk when Aziraphale had been discorporated and had still tried to contact him, “Remember?”

Aziraphale’s face falls.

Right. 

The bookshop is gone. It’d burned down. One of the candles must have gotten knocked over. 

Crowley pauses, and says, “You can stay at my place, if you like.”

Thoughtful Crowley, who’d always, always looked after him and tried to make sure he was alright. Crowley who was always ready to do small favors just to make him happy, like clean the stain out of his favorite coat, or call a bus down to drive them both back to London. 

Aziraphale smiles, the same smile he’d smiled all those years ago when he’d said, “You go too fast for me, Crowley.”

He says, “I don’t think my side would approve of that.”

“You don’t have a side anymore,” Crowley reminds him. “Neither of us do. We’re on our own side.”

He lifts a hand and flags down the bus, which dutifully stops and opens its doors for them.

Aziraphale is on that precipice again, as Crowley is offering, ever patient, once more the proverbial apple.

_ I’ll give you a lift,  _ he’d said once.  _ Anywhere you want to go. _

Anywhere, Aziraphale realizes, is to whatever lengths his stubbornness will take them both. Anywhere is whatever ridiculous situation Aziraphale makes with his attempt at human magic. Anywhere is the disasters that have befallen them again and again due to Aziraphale’s blind faith in Heaven. Anywhere is standing in an air base, holding onto the Antichrist’s hand and soothing his nerves as best as they can because that’s the most they can do, while they face down Satan. 

Anywhere is to the end of the world, and to Tadfield, and to a burning bookshop. Anywhere is also Crowley’s Mayfair flat. 

Aziraphale smiles and stands. He takes that proverbial apple.

Crowley takes his hand in his and laces their fingers together and they board the bus. 

After so many years, Aziraphale finally lets himself catch up. 

And truth be told, he’s not so surprised. Crowley is everything he wanted love to be.

 

* * *

Crowley is as stubborn as he is in love with Aziraphale.

He knows this, of course, even when he’d rather do without the second part, but any attempt to ignore the situation has just ended up in it getting worse, so he’s spent the last few millenia letting everything happen instead. 

When he’s determined, however, he’s  _ determined,  _ and it’s with this determination that he keeps going back to Aziraphale. 

They’re friends, he knows this, but the angel is stubborn in a way that’s different from Crowley. It’s a stubbornness built out of fear, of being told what to do from the first moment he’s existed, and being shown that not doing what he’s meant to do is going to result in awful things. 

Crowley can’t blame him much, even when it’s tiring, sometimes. 

So he remembers the Ritz, and watches Aziraphale freeze in his tracks when he offers for them both to have lunch there. He does everything he can for him, promising that he’ll take care of it when the angel is in a pinch. They fight and they argue, but he comes back, and he wordlessly forgives the angel even when demonic protocol is to hold grudges. 

See, in the same way Crowley hadn’t so much as fallen as sauntered vaguely downwards, he also doesn’t really follow demonic rules as lightly skim the rulebook and do whatever the bare minimum of what he remembers them to be is. And being around Aziraphale didn’t just summon the urge to not do that, it also summoned the urge to do the opposite of that.

Like, say, break an angel out of the bastille, or run into a burning bookshop looking for him to save him if he was inside.

(Or, you know, fall in love with him in the first place, but who could blame him, it was like looking at the sun without getting your retinas burned.)

It’s not like it matters now, anyway, because what Crowley has learned very fast when the apocalypse had been underway is that they didn’t have their respective sides. They are on their side. It was him and Aziraphale against everything else, and it always has been, even when they weren’t aware of it. 

Hell doesn’t care about him. Heaven doesn’t care about Aziraphale. They only ever care when they break the rules just to tell them off, and what kind of sides are those? 

This, sitting on a bus on a cold night, hand in hand with the angel, is the side he wants to be on. It’s the side where he belongs. It’s where he’s always been accepted ever since he’d fallen. 

The side he’s supposed to be on is Aziraphale’s, where the angel is endlessly patient but also dreadfully afraid, but is trying so hard. 

Crowley takes his hand in his and laces their fingers together. Aziraphale squeezes gently. 

“Whatever happens, my dear,” Aziraphale says, as they both step out of the bus and look up at Crowley’s flat. “We’re on our side.”

Crowley smiles.

“That we are, angel,” he says, “That we are.”

**Author's Note:**

> The TV show made me die, I've been waiting for so long and it is FINALLY here...bless...
> 
> artblog: https://almostsweetangel.tumblr.com/  
> writing blog:https://inkteacup.tumblr.com/  
> instagram: https://www.instagram.com/teacupchaos/


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